


hearts that are meant to beat

by gsparkle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Coffee Shops, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7975765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/pseuds/gsparkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regular daily occurrence: Sam Wilson flirts with the cute guy at the coffee shop who does his sudoku in green pen.</p><p>Irregular daily occurrence: said cute guy asks Sam to be his fake boyfriend for a wedding date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hearts that are meant to beat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themirrordarkly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themirrordarkly/gifts).



> I'm a sucker for fake dating, and I loved exploring a relationship between Bucky and Sam for the 2016 Avengers Fest! **themirrordarkly,** I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Title from this lovely little [poem.](http://quidnunc-life.tumblr.com/post/55307487192/acid-washed-thoughts-this) Love as always to santiagoinbflat <3

Now, let’s get one thing straight: Sam Wilson is a man of routine. Every day, without fail, he: snoozes his alarm three times; loses the one-sided, purely imaginary race with the insanely fast guy who runs the same course around the Reflecting Pool; stands under the shower until the hot water runs out; dresses and takes the Red Line to Farragut North; swings by Lucky’s Coffee to snag a caramel macchiato and flirt with the cute guy doing sudoku in green pen at the counter; and arrives at work precisely three minutes before 8 am.

When this routine is disrupted, _Sam_ is disrupted; for example, the last time he snoozed his alarm _four_ times, he didn’t get his coffee and resultingly acted like a complete gremlin the whole day. Therefore, when Cute Sudoku Guy looks up, takes a huge gulp of his coffee, and says, “Hey, I know this is crazy, but I need you to be my boyfriend at a wedding this weekend,” Sam feels his lengthy silence is justified.

“Your… boyfriend,” he manages, wondering if these words perhaps mean something entirely different wherever this guy is from.

The tips of Cute Sudoku Guy’s ears turn a pretty adorable shade of pink. “Yeah,” he mutters, embarrassment plain on his face. “My best friend is getting married, and I sort of--” His voice gets quieter and quieter with each word until Sam leans in close and still can’t make the words out.

“You sort of _what?”_ Sam asks, looking down at the watch that tells him he needs to leave in 43 seconds or he’ll be late for work.

“Just think about it!” Cute Sudoku Guy blurts desperately. “If you’re willing to hear more, meet me back here at 4.” He shoves his unfinished puzzle into his bag and rushes out of the cafe, leaving the remnants of Sam’s routine in his wake.

*****

Sam’s distraction reaches monumental heights as the day rolls on. He calls the receptionist “Parker” instead of “Peter” multiple times, and accidentally blasts his workout mix instead of the gentle sounds he usually plays during the quiet reflection portion of his group counseling session. He is jumpy and irritable and spends the whole day arguing with himself. His PRO column notes that Cute Sudoku Guy is, well, _cute,_ well-groomed and familiar with hygiene, and intelligent enough to complete a sudoku puzzle. His CON column notes that everything he “knows” about this guy is _conjecture_ because they don’t know each other _at all,_ he doesn’t even know the guy’s _real name,_ and can this guy really be such a prize, anyway, if he’s going around soliciting fake boyfriends at coffee shops?

Texting his friends is no help. “Does this mean I can stop looking for someone to date you?” Natasha asks. “It’s hard to find someone willing to be seen with your lame ass.”

“Do you get free food? If so, do it,” responds Clint.

 _You’re both the worst,_ Sam texts them back. _If we get married, I’m not inviting either of you,_ but he deletes that last part lest it give them any ideas. By 3:30 his conflicting emotions come to a head. “Heading out early today, Parker”-- _wince_ \--“I mean, Peter. See you tomorrow.” This willing departure from his routine makes his feet fight him every step of the way to the coffee shop. _But,_ he argues with himself, _I need closure on this day, one way or another, or else I’ll have to find a new coffee place and the entire routine will be changed._ Such an outcome would be cataclysmic: Lucky’s coffee is undeniably the best in the Downtown area. The threat of finding a new coffee spot is enough to get him to his current one, where he orders a drink just to remind himself how important caffeine is to his day to day life. Once they call his name and the first sip of coffee settles his jangling nerves, he lets himself look around the cafe.

Cute Sudoku Guy isn’t at his usual spot at the counter. This afternoon he’s at a little table tucked into a corner, anxiously peering through the window. This suggests to Sam that he hasn’t been seen, so he takes the opportunity to study the routine-ruiner; reconnaissance for the potential upcoming mission. Cute Sudoku Guy wears his brown hair long, pulled back in a bun and paired with stubble that gives off a sensitive lumberjack sort of vibe. From this distance, Sam can’t see his eyes, but his memory supplies that that they are grey, clear and piercing even when occasionally hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses. Having never previously spent much time analyzing the object of his morning flirtation, Sam’s interest level ratchets up as he notes a tattoo peeking out from sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the musculature of an athlete.

 _Maybe this won’t be so bad,_ Sam thinks, and that single thought shifts the scales until it’s clear that, unless Cute Sudoku Guy turns out to be a terrible person, Sam will be participating in this charade.

“Hi,” he says, slipping into the empty chair with what he hopes in an endearing grin, “I’m Sam. I figured we should know each other’s names if I’m going to be your fake boyfriend.”

Cute Sudoku Guy startles and blushes. “Oh my god,” he says, a fascinating mixture of relief and bashfulness playing across his features. “I can’t believe you actually came back. I thought for sure I’d have to come clean. I’m Bucky, by the way.”

“Come clean about _what?”_ Sam has to ask, and Bucky’s face darkens from pink to red.

“Okay,” he stammers, “See, my best friend Steve is getting married to the girl of his dreams, and ever since they got engaged, he’s been trying to fix me up with just about everyone he knows--I think he feels bad about leaving me in single land--his words, not mine. Anyway, I got tired of all the blind dates and surprise dates and overall terrible dates, so I told Steve that I was seeing someone to get him off my case. I wasn’t really expecting him to insist that I bring that someone to the wedding, but I guess he didn’t believe me, so…” He shrugged helplessly.

“Why _me,_ though?” Sam has to press, his coffee forgotten as he gesticulates. “Why couldn’t you just, I don’t know, ask a friend, or put out a craigslist ad?”

This earns him a look a pure disbelief. “Well I don’t want to get _murdered,”_ Bucky explains patiently. “And I also… sort of… specifically said I was dating a guy from my coffee shop… specifically, a black guy who drinks caramel macchiatos and has great arms.”

 _Well._ Sam doesn’t have an answer to that; how could he, really? “I… see…” he at last manages, but he’s not sure he sees at all.

“I figured nobody would ever find out,” Bucky reasons helplessly. “You’d never know, I’d just tell Steve we broke up, and--and yeah. If Steve finds out that I lied--”

“He’ll torment you endlessly?” Sam guesses.

“You have _no_ idea,” says Bucky, endearingly solemn. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

In an odd way, Sam understands. As well-meaning as Natasha is, her constant attempts to pair him up with someone are just exhausting. He’s never gone through with it, but Sam has had fleeting thoughts of lying to get her off his back. Maybe the fact that this guy has gone through with such a lie just makes him braver than Sam. Maybe Bucky is onto something here.

“Look,” Sam says, “An hour ago I called you--” _Shut up,_ he tells himself before starting again. “I should at least know your last name before I go along with this.”

“Oh! It’s--Barnes, Bucky Barnes.” He sticks out a hand for a much belated handshake. His hand is big and warm, probably from the coffee, and Sam knows he hangs on a second too long.

“Your parents big Wisconsin fans?” Sam asks. “Bucky the Badger? Or--?”

Bucky rolls his eyes in practiced embarrassment. “I wish. I’m really James Buchanan Barnes, because I guess we’re distant relatives of President James Buchanan or something.”

Sam does some quick thinking. Bucky is cute, sweet, and doesn’t appear to be a murderer. Considering that his original weekend plan had centered around his couch, a six-pack, and watching the Nationals game with Clint, free wedding food seems like an upgrade.

“Okay, Bucky,” Sam says, trying to ignore the way Bucky’s hopeful smile makes his heart thump, “Here’s how this is going to work…”

*****

They meet the next night, Thursday, for a planning session. _Not a date,_ Sam reminds himself for the fifteenth time as he strolls up to the restaurant. He has to keep reminding himself, because this Thai place is his default first date location, and he’s unconsciously worn his lucky first date socks, and when he walks in, Bucky smiles and waves in a way that makes Sam wish like hell this _was_ a first date.

It’s not, though, it’s not, so he shakes out his napkin and tries not to get starry-eyed at the way Bucky’s shoulders press against his sweater. Sam’s only ever seen him in some sort of work uniform, a polo and slacks, and these casual clothes are really, simply, unacceptably hot.

He is nothing if not smooth, however, so Sam plays his surely apparent double take into an opening question. “I just realized I’ve always seen you dressed for work,” he explains, “and I guess I should know probably know where that is?”

In the future, Sam will look back and see that this is the moment he fell for James Buchanan Barnes. At the question, Bucky’s entire face lights up, transformed with joy. “I work at a museum,” he gushes, “I help kids learn about science.” His passion for his job is off the charts and seems to be a whole body experience from the way his hands wave and one lock of hair swings free of his bun. Sam learns that Bucky has worked at the National Geographic Museum for four years, first as a docent, then moving specifically to the areas designed for child exploration, and now coordinating the children’s discovery experience. It’s possibly the cutest job Sam has ever heard of.

The waiter, previously waved off, comes back and demands an order, and afterwards, Bucky is sheepish. “I just really love my job,” he apologizes, ducking his head as if Sam could possibly have been annoyed.

Sam reaches out and sets his hand over Bucky’s, leaves it there until he looks up. “I love my job, too,” Sam says simply, “and more people should feel that way when they wake up in the morning.” He goes on to describe his job at the VA: the group sessions, the way it feels when a former client comes back to tell him the progress they’ve made, the camaraderie of working someplace where you know you’re making a difference.

Every time Sam worries he’s going on too long, Bucky asks a question or a draws up a story from his own life. The conversation is familiar, comfortable, so much so that when the food comes, Sam unthinkingly reaches his chopsticks across the table and snags some of Bucky’s pad thai.

“Oh, nice touch!” Bucky enthuses. “That’s the kind of thing that’ll really convince Steve.” He cheerfully reaches for Sam’s kaphrao, unaware of the balloon now deflating into Sam’s stomach. It’s too easy to forget, here in the romantic dim lights, surrounded by the fragrance of jasmine and lime, that this is all a ploy, that after this weekend, they’ll return to exchanging empty flirtations at Lucky’s before continuing along their respective paths.

 _You can’t fall in love in one night,_ Sam instructs himself, _not with this guy, not on this night._ It’s time to right the ship, he decides, and he clears the lovesickness from his throat. “So, this weekend. What’s the itinerary and what do I need to know?”

Bucky grins, sheepish and a little guilty. “I was having so much fun I almost forgot.” Sam’s heart leaps in spite of himself and he almost misses the details: Saturday, 5 pm, a black tie affair in a Vienna park. “I’ll pay for the tux rental,” Bucky promises, misinterpreting Sam’s choking at the prospect of seeing him dressed to the nines.

“I have one,” Sam demurs, and quickly jumps into the Cliff’s Notes of his life before the question in Bucky’s eyes can become fully formed. “So, I’m a Harlem kid,” he shares, “and my parents still live there. Dad’s a minister, Mom’s a social worker. My little sister Sarah is a journalist and my brother Gideon’s in law school.” He glosses over his international affairs degree from CUNY Baruch, says just enough about the Air Force for Bucky to know it happened, settles comfortably into describing his coworkers and friends. He talks about Peter the receptionist and Redwing the therapy bird; Clint’s dog and Natasha’s pierogies and their stupid unresolved mutual crush. “And I’m an Aries,” he finishes with a shrug. “You?”

“Call me a zodiac nerd if you want,” Bucky grins, “But I’m a Libra, which means we’re perfectly balanced; in other words, this is totally fate.” Sam groans, but is really endeared: there’s a sweetness to Bucky’s belief in the mystical, to the trust he puts into the vortex of the universe, that it will bear him safely through the whirlpool and deliver him to his true love. Not that Sam is said true love, no, of course not; but still.

Bucky’s parents are gone, but he has a sister, Rebecca, whose name lights him up from the inside. He’s from Brooklyn, and so is Steve the groom, and Sam prepares himself for a night of classic Brooklyn one-up-manship--Brooklynites, as always, needing to prove that they’re just as good as Manhattanites (even though, as is obvious to Sam, they are not and never could be).

They both hate the Mets and Chicago deep dish pizza, Sam in practicality and Bucky on principle. He swears to be a terrific dancer, and if Sam ends up holding his hand when he rolls up a sleeve to explain his tattoo, it’s only so he can see better, honest. Their deep fried ice cream melts as they map out their “relationship”: three months in, they decide, and settled enough that they won’t be expected to be sucking face every ten minutes.

“Although,” Bucky says as they slap cash down and leave; his voice is slow and he’s twisting the college ring on his finger. “We probably should.”

“Should what?” Sam asks, playing dumb. _If Bucky says it, he must be thinking about it; and if he’s thinking about it, then maybe I’m not the only one filling up with want._

“You know,” Bucky mutters, shy and scuffing at an imaginary rock. “We should--should kiss. Normal couples--I mean, real couples--I mean--”

“I got it,” Sam says, waiting even though the smile of relief on Bucky’s face would honestly shame the sun. “Go for it.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, bites his lip, hesitates. “It’s been a while, so no judgement, okay?” _As if I could,_ Sam opens his mouth to say, but at that same moment, Bucky nods to himself, steps forward, cradles Sam’s face in his hands, and-- _Oh. Oh no._

Bucky Barnes kisses like his sole objective is to reduce knees to helpless jelly. Bucky Barnes holds Sam as if he is rare, but not fragile, his fingers mapping over his cheeks and neck and ears. Bucky Barnes doesn’t crowd in or bear down, just kisses Sam with such sweet entirety that the rest of the world loses relevance.

And then he steps back, eyes worried, lower lip back between his teeth. “Okay?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know that he’s just _ruined_ Sam for anyone else.

“Okay,” Sam says, smiling too wide but unable to stop. “I’ll see you Saturday,” he reassures Bucky, and hopes his heart isn’t the only one beating double at the promise.

*****

At the wedding, Sam contemplates the previously laughable concept of fate. Steve the groom has turned out to be the very same sprinter Sam loses to every morning, and Bucky whispers, “Fate!” when he learns this, and suddenly Sam isn’t sure he disagrees. Routine, he’d always thought, was counterintuitive to the very concept of fate, kismet, serendipity; and yet, were he not such a routine man, he may never have noticed the cute guy in tortoiseshell glasses doing sudoku in green ink. If he were not so routine, Bucky may have blurted that he was dating the pink-haired barista, or the surly customer who always snorted at Sam’s coffee order. It could be Surly, not Sam, sitting here in a Virginia botanical garden, watching the way the lazy June sunset paints the colors of the Grand Canyon across Bucky’s face.

So maybe fate is real. Steve and Peggy met when she pulled over to help him fix a flat tire, and now a dude straight out of _The Princess Bride_ is pronouncing them husband and wife. They were each in the right place at the right time, and if that’s what fate boils down to, then Sam knows with dawning certainty that he and Bucky are fate, too.

“Did I look okay up there?” Bucky asks when the ceremony is over and his best man duties are fulfilled. “Could you tell that I almost dropped the rings? I was so nervous.” He has shaved the lumberjack stubble and foregone the tortoiseshell glasses. His bun is neat and his dark eyelashes make his eyes that much brighter, and in that tuxedo he looks like words of beauty that haven’t yet been invented, in languages Sam will never know.

“You were perfect,” Sam says, and is rewarded when the nervous half-smile falls away and leaves nothing but pride and joy. _I think we could be perfect, too, for real_ , he wants to add, but they are joined by Steve and a collection of their college friends for a round of congratulations and introductions.

“This is the guy?” Steve asks with a wink to Sam. “Buck, he is _way_ out of your league.”

“Don’t I know it,” Bucky says, squeezing Sam’s hand. “I guess I’m just lucky.” He smiles then, a private reference wrapped in a smile that leaves Steve glancing between them with entirely too much knowledge.

“It’s my wedding, Buck,” he says, “Please don’t make me throw up at my own wedding,” but he’s smiling and he nods at Sam in the mildest _don’t hurt my friend_ look that’s ever existed before marching off to mingle elsewhere.

“That was shockingly easy,” Bucky comments when they’re alone again. “Maybe it’s because you’re running buddies.”

“Maybe,” Sam agrees. They are summoned to the reception, are seated and served food so delicious Sam _has_ to text Clint a picture, and they watch Steve and Peggy practically float around the dance floor. Bucky is the ideal date, funny and kind and never leaving Sam out of the conversation. The sun sets as Steve and Peggy cut the cake, and the stars come inside as tiny lights twinkle on above the dance floor.

“C’mon,” Bucky murmurs under a swell of laughter, “I’ll show you my sweet moves.” he pulls Sam up by the hand, and Sam half wishes their destination was a darkened corner of the garden outside, somewhere with the perfume of evening flowers hanging romantically in the air. But the crush of the dance floor hugs them together, and Bucky does indeed know his way around a rumba. “Listen,” he says as the song ends. His bowtie is loose and sweat clings to his temples, and Sam wants to kiss the happy crinkles around his eyes. “Listen, Sam, I really, _really,_ appreciate this. How can I ever make it up to you?”

Another song starts, romantic and slow from some bygone era. Bucky sways them into the music and looks at Sam, clearly waiting for an answer. “Go on a date with me,” Sam blurts. “A real one, next week.” This is not suave, this is not cool; this is the will of the universe taking over.

The music bumps along, but Bucky stops. His grey eyes are huge in his face and his hand tightens on Sam’s waist. “Yeah?” he breathes. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, wraps his hand more purposefully around Bucky’s. “We’re perfectly balanced, right? Let’s call this fate.”

“I-- _yeah,”_ Bucky laughs, “this is definitely fate.” His smile could light a thousand fires, and when Sam leans in to kiss him, that smile against his lips sets his entire heart aflame.


End file.
